


speak of the world's own change

by blackkat



Series: HP Drabbles [4]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-11-04 18:30:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17903324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: “Here? Really?” It’s a man’s voice, light and amused, and there's a crackling flicker. Bright white light washes the alley, and Sirius breathes a silent curse, his pulse picking up in buried alarm. A wizard, then. Damn.“Don’t look at me. That soul-mark of yours is what led us here.” Another man, this one with an Irish lilt to his words, dryly pointed. Horrifying, too—Sirius grits his teeth, pressing the tip of his fingers to the soul-mark spread across his collarbone.





	speak of the world's own change

**Author's Note:**

> Built on the same bones of characterization/backstory as my fic _And the brave man with a sword_ , so it will likely make more sense if you've managed to slog through that.

“Salazar!” Godric hisses, and grabs Salazar’s arm, pulling him to a halt in front of the newsstand. “Salazar, _look_!”

Salazar’s expression is longsuffering but faintly amused as he finally lifts his nose from his book. “Godric, if this is another picture of a cat—oh.”

Godric rolls his eyes, not even trying for offense at this point. Besides, it’s hard to pull his eyes away from the image of the man on the front page of the _Prophet_ , sunken eyes and wild hair and an impossibly familiar soul-mark curled across his collarbones. Half of it is hidden by the collar of his shirt, but—Godric knows, instinctive and bone-deep. That’s his mark on Sirius Black’s skin.

“Oh indeed,” he says sardonically, and presses a thumb against the twin mark that stretches across his left wrist. Salazar’s is over his heart, a different shape and form entirely, and Godric had never quite thought they’d be a match, but it’s strange to think that this man is made Godric’s match without being Salazar’s as well. Though, Godric supposes, perhaps that’s a good thing in this case. “I have to say, I wasn’t expecting a murderer.”

Salazar looks at him for a moment, then turns to study the paper again. “He isn't,” he says, and it’s full of plain certainty, unyielding. “If he was created as a match for you, he isn't what they say he is.”

Godric’s breath leaves him in a startled rush, and he reaches out. Salazar catches his hand, tucking their arms together, and he isn't looking at Godric, but his grip is tight.

“No one would believe me if I told them you were a romantic,” Godric laughs, helpless in the face of it. Only Salazar would have that kind of faith in him after how they started.

“I'm not,” Salazar says, lazily precise. “But you are.” His thumb brushes the soul-mark, and with a considering hum he turns away from the stand, pulls Godric on. Knockturn Alley is never overly busy, but right now, with rain starting and a chilly wind picking up, it’s even more sparsely populated than normal. Godric hardly minds; it gives him space to pull Salazar to a halt, searching his partner’s face carefully.

“Salazar?” he asks, because Salazar always has a plan, or a twisty thought, and right now is no different. Grey eyes study him for a moment, flicker away, and the set of Salazar’s mouth shifts to something faintly wry.

“I'm sure we can find Black, even if the Aurors have had no luck,” he says, and when Godric opens his mouth to protest, Salazar raises a hand. “I've heard what the news says of him, Godric. Don’t tell me you don’t care to know the truth of it.”

Godric studies Salazar’s face, the easy set to his brows, the lack of tension in his shoulders, and can't help but frown a little. “I'm just rather less convinced that the whole world is wrong,” he says. “Having a soulmate who’s also a mass murderer seems rather—”

“Impossible,” Salazar finishes for him, and when Godric raises a brow at him, Salazar lifts one right back. “If you don’t trust the kindness of your own fate, trust the kindness of mine. I certainly haven’t done anything to deserve a hundred lifetimes watching you moon over a killer.” Before Godric can interject, Salazar covers his mouth with a hand and warns, “Not a word. You're a _teacher_ , Godric, not a mercenary any longer.”

Gently, Godric grips his wrist, pulling his hand away. “Any longer,” he repeats pointedly, but when Salazar gives him a narrow look he surrenders with a snort. “All right, all right. I suppose it’s better to meet him and be sure than spend the decades wondering.”

“And finally, you see sense.” Salazar starts walking again, forcing Godric to catch up as he heads towards the Leaky Cauldron.

With a hand on his sword, carefully hidden under a concealment charm, Godric falls into step, casting a veiled glance at Salazar as he does so. “Are you really so eager to get rid of me?” he jokes. “And to a suspected _murderer_?”

Because he knows Godric far better than anyone, Salazar doesn’t simply dismiss the question. Instead, he pauses, considering, and then says, “I've always known you have another soulmate, Godric. That’s something we settled long ago. I also know _you_. For you to love as the soul-mark promises, whoever you're connected to must have at least a few redeeming features.”

As always, Salazar’s faith outpaces his own. Godric smiles wryly, but doesn’t try to argue. “I assume you have a plan to find the man all of Britain hasn’t been able to locate?” he asks, and Salazar sniffs like he’s offended by the very implication of doubt. Reaching out, he takes Godric’s arm, turns on his heel, and Disapparates them with a sharp pop.

 

 

Sirius passes out from exhaustion about halfway to Little Whinging, curled up behind a dumpster and freezing even in the balmy night. He hasn’t felt warm since he pulled himself out of the sea, and he hasn’t had a real, full meal since before they threw him in Azkaban. All he wants is to see Harry, even just a _glimpse_ of him, and then find Peter and tear him into shreds so small they're unidentifiable.

Even exhaustion isn't enough to keep from waking, suddenly and instantly alert, at the sound of footsteps on the pavement. He holds his breath, every muscle frozen tense and ready, and judges how quickly he can shift into a dog without being seen. Being human is a luxury, and one he’d thought to risk, but—

“Here? Really?” It’s a man’s voice, light and amused, and there's a crackling flicker. Bright white light washes the alley, and Sirius breathes a silent curse, his pulse picking up in buried alarm. A wizard, then. Damn.

“Don’t look at me. That soul-mark of yours is what led us here.” Another man, this one with an Irish lilt to his words, dryly pointed. Horrifying, too—Sirius grits his teeth, pressing the tip of his fingers to the soul-mark spread across his collarbone. Of course. Of _course_ his soulmate is some kind of Auror, ready, willing, and able to use the mark to track Sirius down. Sirius’s bloody Black luck strikes again.

Carefully, silently, Sirius shifts just enough to get a hand beneath himself, lets a single spark of magic rise. the shift from man to dog is instinctive at this point, and he hauls himself up onto all fours, not bothering to hide the sound of it. Spares a second to curse, because the splash of white across his chest _looks_ like his soul-mark still, but hopefully the man will write it off, laugh it away as a coincidence. Hopefully he won't look too closely, because Sirius has no wand, no way to defend himself if this goes wrong.

When he scrambles out from behind the dumpster, it’s to two raised wands and the sight of two men who are most certainly wizards. The taller of the two is redheaded, dressed in black accented with red and gold, and he looks Sirius over, then takes a step forward.

“Well now,” he says, and by his voice he’s the first man, Sirius’s soulmate. He crouches down, sliding his wand up his sleeve, and offers Sirius a hand. “A Grim, in a place like this? Now there's a thing of interest. Hello, sweetheart. Aren’t you a handsome one?”

Nothing in that tone is hostile, so Sirius wags his tail tentatively, lets his jaws loll in a dog-grin, and gets one in return. Usually when people think Sirius is a Grim, there's a lot more screaming and fainting and fewer compliments. Not that Sirius minds this turn of events; with any luck, he can slip past the men and make his escape.

There's an exasperated sigh, and the second man lowers his wand. “Godric,” he says crossly. “Do you truly want to waste time with a _dog_ right now?”

“No time spent with a dog is wasted, Salazar,” Godric says firmly, and Sirius approves of the sentiment enough to push forward, into the outstretched hand. Immediately, Godric scratches behind his ear, strokes over his neck and shoulder, and hums. “Clearly a ferocious omen of death,” he teases lightly, and when Sirius huffs in offense he laughs. It’s a nice laugh, low and warm and throaty, and Sirius tries very hard not to remember that this man bears the same soul-mark somewhere on his body, carved into his skin. Tries not to think that this man was born for Sirius, and yet is hunting him.

“The odds of that _actually_ being a Grim are miniscule.” Salazar folds his arms across his chest, leveling a glare at the back of Godric’s head. “Godric, you are _not_ taking him home with us.”

Godric laughs, scratching Sirius’s chest. “Even though he’s my soulmate?” he asks.

Sirius’s heart skips a beat, and in the same moment Salazar demands, “ _Godric_?”

With a chuckle, Godric rises to his feet, then draws his wand. Sirius tenses sharply, ready to dodge, but instead of pointing it at him, Godric turns, raises it. a shimmering veil of silvery blue whirls out to settle over the mouth of the alley like a heavy mist, rises to cover the top of it as well, and Godric slides his wand away again.

“No one can see or hear us now,” he says, and gives Sirius a quick smile. “You can transform safely. It’s our secret, Black.”

There's a long moment of startled silence as Salazar stares at Godric, and Sirius does the same. Then, with a sound of disgust, Salazar shoves his wand into the pocket of his robe and says, “ _Sirius_. The Dog Star. Sirius _Black_ , who turns into a _black dog_. Merlin’s frilly knickers, I _hate you_ —”

Godric is laughing, bright, wicked humor and familiar fondness. “See?” he tells Sirius. “If you're driving Salazar mad we’re already off to a good start.”

Sirius looks from Godric to the mist-filled opening of the alley, wondering if he wants to risk it. Wondering if he _can_ —that was complicated wordless magic, and Sirius doesn’t know the spell, but he’s willing to bet it’s not anything standard to the DMLE.

Godric’s expression shifts, softens. He sits down on the pavement, uncaring of the layer of filth covering it, and holds out a hand, palm-up. For a moment, Sirius stares at him in confusion, wondering if he wants Sirius to lick it or something, but—

There, on his wrist right over the pulse-point, is a mark that Sirius knows as well as he knows his own name. he’s always thought it looked a little like an abstract lion with a burning mane, and seeing it mirrored on someone else’s skin is startling, unnerving. Sirius stares at it for a long, long minute, then raises his head to look at Godric and gets a small smile in return.

“My word that we simply want to talk,” Godric promises, sketching an X over his heart. the lines of it glow white, then fade, but—that’s a spell Sirius knows, and an ancient one at that. Pureblood families use it for signing marriage contracts or intergenerational deals that are meant to last.

Between the oath and the soul-mark, Sirius can feel his resolve crumbling. He hunches in on himself for a moment, fighting the impulse, but—

That’s Sirius’s soul-mark. It’s the one he thought would never show up on anyone else’s skin, what he’d thought lost. Most people find their soulmates early, but when no one had appeared, when Azkaban had closed around him, Sirius had thought it just—meant they wouldn’t ever.

The flicker of magic scrapes across his bones, drags the shift up from inside of him, and in a moment Sirius is pushing up, sitting back on his heels, and he looks up to meet Godric’s eyes with equal parts challenge and trepidation.

“You wanted to talk?” he asks, and gives Godric his best cocky smirk, even though it feels hollow, worn down to nothing. He can fake it well enough, though.

Godric smiles faintly, but there's a thread of something else to it, something that puts the hair on the back of Sirius’s neck up. He starts to shift, but before he can, there's a step. A long-fingered hand slides over Godric’s eyes, pulling his head back against Salazar’s thigh, and even as he opens his mouth Salazar says firmly, “Quiet, Godric.”

“ _Bossy_ ,” Godric complains, but though he bats halfheartedly at Salazar’s elbow he doesn’t try to move it.

With a quiet snort, Salazar pats the top of his head, then looks at Sirius, lifting a brow. “How were you framed?” he asks.

Sirius’s heart might very well stop beating in that instant.

There's a pause, and then Godric reaches up, gripping Salazar’s wrist and pulling his hand away firmly but gently. Green eyes flicker over Sirius’s face, and then all at once the tension bleeds out of Godric’s frame, when Sirius hadn’t even realized it was present. “Oh thank Morgana,” Godric says. “It’s true.”

Sirius swallows, not quite sure what to say to that. “ _How_?” he demands. “No one in the Ministry—”

Salazar makes a derisive sound. “The Ministry is run by incompetents,” he says dismissively. “But if you have Godric’s other mark, you wouldn’t be the type to kill innocents. I assumed there was something else afoot.”

Godric’s smile is wry, and from the look on his face he didn’t have nearly Salazar’s faith. “I’m glad,” he says even so. “But you were framed? By one of Voldemort’s followers?”

“My _friend_ ,” Sirius spits. “But yes, he was that, too. Peter Pettigrew. He blew himself up when I confronted him, and he must have transformed—he’s an Animagus too. A rat.”

“In more ways than the one, I assume,” Salazar says dryly. He straightens, letting go of Godric and stepping back, and gives Sirius a swift, sly smile. “I’ll keep watch while you discuss things. Godric, try not to be unbearably stupid. I can only fix so many of your blunders.”

Godric makes an irritated, offended sound, rather like an aggravated lion. “I’ll set the girls on you,” he threatens, but Salazar just waves a languid hand over his shoulder and keeps walking. He slips through the mist at the end of the alley, and it doesn’t stop him. not a barrier, then, or at least not a physical one. The knowledge settles something in Sirius’s chest, and he lets himself relax a little more, looking Godric over.

“So you decided to buck history?” he asks with some amusement, and when Godric’s brows furrow he points after Salazar. “A man named Godric and a man named Salazar, soulmates instead of mortal enemies?”

Confusion gives way to laughter, and Godric chuckles. “The history’s been twisted a bit over time,” he says. “We were never enemies, even then.”

Sirius stares at him. blinks, shakes his head hard like he’s trying to clear fur from his ears, and replays the words over in his head. They still sound the same, though. “Sorry?” he says, not sure if it wants to be a demand or a plea.

Godric’s smile is faintly wry. “Given that you're my soulmate, I figure you should know everything before you agree,” he says, and the way he looks to the side, turns his face away, is _baffling_. If he means what Sirius thinks he means—

“I'm Godric Gryffindor,” he says, and when Sirius sucks in a breath, the revelation half-expected but still entirely jarring, he looks back and snorts, mouth tipping up at one corner. “Sorry for the lack of flashy entrance, but we thought it better not to alarm you.”

 _We_ , because given what Salazar implied, he and Godric are _also_ soulmates. Salazar Slytherin. _Salazar Slytherin_ is the first soulmate of Sirius’s soulmate, who is _Godric Gryffindor._

“Merlin,” Sirius mutters, and the Dementors never left him feeling this dizzy, in all his time in Azkaban. “I—you just—came to find me? even with the papers, and the Ministry saying—”

Godric tips one shoulder in a shrug. “I had to see,” he says, and holds Sirius’s gaze. “Salazar had faith you weren’t what they said you were. He’s usually right.”

Sirius can't help but crack a smile. “But don’t tell him that?” he jokes, and Godric laughs.

“Exactly,” he agrees, and tips his head. The pale glow of the streetlight through the magic fog limns him, and for a moment his short red hair looks longer, fuller, like a lion’s mane. “So what are you doing on the run in a Muggle town?”

“My godson,” Sirius blurts, and the words leaving his mouth are a bewildering relief. He hasn’t mentioned Harry to anyone before, not since the day they locked him up, but—he’s been Sirius’s only thought beyond Peter since he dragged himself onto the shore. “Harry. He’s living with his aunt, and I _need_ to see him—”

“Then we’ll go see him.” as simple as that, Godric pushes to his feet, then offers Sirius a hand with a smile. “Time to get to know each other, perhaps?”

The soul-mark on his collarbone seems _hot_ , several degrees warmer than the surrounding skin. Sirius looks from Godric’s hand up to his green eyes, not entirely sure if he wants to take it. this seems like a fever dream, like a spate of madness coming to the fore. Godric Gryffindor turning up in a dirty alley in Surrey, ready and willing to help, believing that Sirius was framed and Peter was the traitor. Sirius would think it was definitely a dream, except that his dreams are never anything so good.

He slides his hand into Godric’s, lets Godric pull him to his feet in one easy motion. It’s hard to think, though, hard to see beyond the red velvet and gold that’s filling Sirius’s memory. _Godric Gryffindor_ is standing in front of him, _Sirius’s soulmate_ , and something in Sirius wants to think it’s a trick, but—

No one can reproduce soul-marks, and no one _would_. No one would think to impersonate Godric, either, because it just seems…ludicrous. Impossible.

That’s Sirius’s mark over the pulse of his wrist, though. Sirius has never been more certain of anything in his life.

“I know where Peter is,” he says, before Godric can even take a step back. Curls his fingers, involuntarily gripping Godric’s hand tighter before he realizes, and then tries to let go with a jerk.

Godric catches his hand before he can. He tugs Sirius a step closer, eyes intent, and grins. There's very little of humor in it, and far more of a big cat, ready to pounce. “That makes it easier, then,” he says lightly. “I’d thought to scour the countryside for him, but the direct route works as well.”

“Just like that?” Sirius asks, because he still can't quite believe it. “On the word of a convicted murderer?”

Godric shrugs. “You're telling the truth,” he says. “I don’t need Veritaserum to realize that. And _convicted_ doesn’t always mean _guilty_.”

Some part of Sirius has been waiting almost twelve years to hear those words, and his breath escapes him in a shuddering rush. _You're telling the truth_ , and it’s four small words, but they mean _everything_ right now.

“Harry first,” he says hoarsely.

“The boy first indeed,” Salazar agrees, sudden enough to make Sirius twitch. Catching it, Salazar smirks at him, but doesn’t linger, looking to Godric instead. “A Disillusionment Charm?”

Sirius opens his mouth to say he can go back to being Padfoot for a while longer—it’s what he’d planned originally, after all—but before he can get the words out, Godric shakes his head.

“Not everyone takes the sight of a Grim so easily,” he says, and squeezes Sirius’s hand. “With your permission? I know a few charms to keep you nondescript so you can travel openly with us.”

Traveling openly sounds like a wonder after the past months, and Sirius laughs, clutching at Godric’s hand. “Right under the Aurors’ noses?” he asks, and grins, all teeth. “I can't say I’d object.”

Godric grins back. “A man after my own heart,” he jokes, and instead of drawing his wand, he brushes his fingers over Sirius’s hair, traces the planes of his face with a light touch. Sirius can feel the shimmer of a spell left behind, like stardust across his skin, but he doesn’t let himself look away from leaf-green eyes.

“At the very least, save that for the hotel,” Salazar complains, and when Sirius glances over at him warily, he raises a pointed brow, smiling like a sly little dare. “Soon enough we’ll all be behind closed doors.”

Sirius freezes stock-still, eyes widening. That was—that sounded like Salazar _flirting with him_. for a long moment, Sirius tries to wrap his head around the image, tries to figure out if _another_ Hogwarts founder just implied—

Godric chuckles, slotting their fingers together. “You’ll get used to it,” he promises. “He’s charming when he wants to be.”

Sirius is rather doubtful, honestly. But—he supposes he’s going to have the opportunity to learn, and that’s the most bewildering thing of all.


End file.
